


Disarranged

by misreall



Series: An Arrangement [3]
Category: Loki: Agent of Asgard, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Bonding, Dark Magic, F/M, Idiots in Love, Jotunn Loki (Marvel), Kissing, Light Bondage, Magic, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, Sex, Vaginal Fingering, more tags to come, probably
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-14 19:28:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29301165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misreall/pseuds/misreall
Summary: Nye, the bride by arrangement to Prince Loki of Jotunheim, travels to Midgard to study.  Alone.She thinks.
Relationships: Loki (Marvel)/Original Female Character(s)
Series: An Arrangement [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2151882
Comments: 45
Kudos: 54





	1. Marriage is not just a porridge that you spit out if it’s too hot. ~ Filipino Proverb

Loki was famous for his ability to take revenge. 

It was, he thought to himself as he strolled through the market, one of the things he was most known for. Along with what he liked to consider a whimsical sense of humor, it was considered his defining trait by many who did not know him.

Whereas those who did know him all knew it was  _ certainly _ his defining trait. 

The Midgardians, be they people of this city, the foreign men who strolled arm and arm with their women, which was not a local custom, or the country folk who had brought foodstuff and spices for sale, all parted unconsciously for him. Though his masquerade as one of the foreigners was quite perfect there was something still intangible about him that made them give way.

Perhaps it was the innate grace of even Jotnar royalty, or the aura of his magic or his menace. 

Or the fact that he was, even without his topper, at least half a foot taller than the next largest male. 

Everyone, he mused as he stopped to look at a display, seemed to know that he was best not to annoy. 

Everyone but his bride. 

His gloved fist squeezed his ebony walking stick until it creaked and he had to force himself to ease his grip less the wood and lacquer turn to powder in his hand.

The flower seller was dressed in white and red robes where he sat on a faded rug beside the buckets filled with brilliantly colored flowers. His clothing was cool and sensible for the white-hot heat of the desert day, a heat only barely mitigated by the blue and green shade that covered the stall, the thick stone walls that shadowed the market, and the brilliantly glistening ocean on the far side of the city.

Loki considered if he should change his attire to something like what the locals wore, which might be quite elegant as well as sensible, with a touch of tailoring. But no, he had already decided that European fashions suited him better, and would not involve covering his hair with a turban.

Or, he thought, stroking his chin, growing a beard. That was far too Asgardian for him.

Besides, it wasn’t as if even in his suit of pearl grey, with its long coat and pine green cravat, Loki was at all warm. And the walking stick that was part of the French fashion appealed to him both as an easy way to disguise a weapon as well as being perfect for pointing towards things he desired to have rather than having to lower himself to speak. 

As he did now, pointing to a bouquet of white, delightfully fragrant little blooms. A little girl who had been hiding under the display popped out and wrapped their stems in striped paper before giving them to Loki with a hopeful look. He gave her a coin and she retreated back under the display with a sound of shock.

A spell had transformed one of the smaller gems from his dowry into the equivalent sum of the local currency but Loki had not bothered with finding out what each coin was worth. He had no plan to remain on dull Midgard long enough for such things to matter. 

Handing the proprietor a number of coins which was, based on his stunned yet sly reaction, far more than they were worth, Loki ignored the now more interested dealers at the other stands and stalls until he found a quiet alcove in the souk. Taking the prettiest few, he fashioned himself a sweet-smelling boutonniere. 

Frowning at the contrast of the white with the grey, he delicately stroked the tender petals with a black-gloved fingertip and a little seidr until they blushed a sweet pink that he liked better.

He smiled at their easy obedience. 

Unlike Nye.

A small snarl replaced Loki’s smile.

Pressing the rest of the bouquet to his lips, he whispered to them, instructing them as to where they were to go, opening his hand so a borrowed bit of hot, desert wind took it from his hand, wafting it gently up and up. Walking through the crowd, which again gave him way without knowing they did so, he followed it for a bit. 

For a moment it halted, as if uncertain where to go. Something, some sorcery, was preventing his posy from delivering itself.

Touching his fingers to his lips, Loki blew them a kiss. 

A cold wind, perhaps the coldest that had ever been known there, blew through the souk, confusing the quickly shivering Tunisians and giving a feeling of either pleasant nostalgia or miserable memory to those Europeans who had not been home for winter in some time. It rippled skirts, robes, and cotton shades, lay a dust of frost on figs and quinces, chilled the small glasses of local brandy that a few men playing chess were indulging in, and left a rime of ice on the mint tea that was served from a massive brass samovar by a white-bearded man. 

And then as quickly the breeze was gone, leaving a confused babble in its wake, and taking the bouquet with it, headed towards a tall and rather foreboding tower that could just barely be seen farther down the coast.

Everyone, Loki returned to his musings,  _ everyone _ who knew him recognised that his ability, as well as his desire to take revenge, was one of his defining traits. 

Save, it seemed, his own bride.

He would have to see she came to know him better.

Smiling once again, pushing his hat a bit forward to add a further air of mystery to himself, Loki continued his saunter through the market.

  
  


Midgard was cold. 

Of course before arriving Nye knew there were certainly parts of it that would be, as well as there being comfortable, pretty, balmy places, but thus far all she had seen of it - the Black Caves, L'École du Dragon, and now the halls of Domdaniel by the sea - was cold. 

Though she had been assured that normally the weather where it was situated was hot and dry, they were that year going through an astonishingly long and wet winter. None of the instructors or servants had ever known anything like it, and some of them were quite old, at least by Midgardian standards where their magically sustained lives of over a century were prodigious indeed.

Nye was cold. 

Considering that being married to a Frost Giant prince meant she could endure Frost Giant cold, some chilly, grey breezes should have been beneath her notice.

Perhaps there was something in the Midgardian atmosphere as a whole that was uncomfortable for beings not from there. That would go a long way to explaining why so few visitors from the other Realms came to it. 

That and the fact that the Asgardians had it under their ‘protection.’ Though how that could be, when it seemed that only a select few on the Realm had ever heard of Asgard. Or Jotunheimr. Or Vanaheim. Or any of the other Realms. And within those who  _ had _ heard of them, they were considered mythological. 

Only the chiefest wizard here, the master of Scholomance, and the magician who inhabited the Black Caves - and was very rude indeed - knew the truth, and all also seemed vastly indifferent to it. Ghislaine - the seneschal of Domdaniel - had waved off Nye when she had asked about it. “Oh, we let those snobby, policing types in Kamar-Taj handle that sort of the thing. They are going to do it anyway, so better to let them enjoy feeling like they are the border guards for our world than have them meddling in what we do. Stealing books for our own good, claiming to be  _ supreme, _ whatever that is supposed to mean.” 

Kamar-Taj has been on Nye’s list of places to try for training, however, when she knocked on the door several people in maroon and purple led by a skinny bald woman had attempted to banish her for invading their world. 

It was terribly rude. 

Nye wasn’t actually Jotun after all, save by marriage, and therefore was clearly _ not _ of the last Realm that had attempted to colonize their world. 

She had no interest in invading anywhere. 

Perhaps the magic the sorcerers of Kamar-Taj had thrust at her in their attempt to repel her from enrolling at their school was responsible for her being so cold. Nye knew that there was no way that as a Jotnar bride she should even be as much as mildly chilled by the light breezes of winter in Tunisia, yet here she was, shivering. 

Or perhaps it was because of Loki’s mood when she had last seen him, back to her, shoulders set in angry lines, refusing to say goodbye to her. Asking for a separation from a powerful Jotun magic-user was probably a good way to ensure a ruddy nose and icy feet for some time to come.

“Madame,” Nour, the grey-haired, unrelentingly perfect servant who had been assigned to her as a sort of majordomo and guide upon first entering the school called to her from the doorway to the roof of the tower, “you have been invited to tea by the Master of the Black. The Mistress of the Red has as well,” she added, with a blatant eye roll. “What messages should I send?” Her voice was cagey, and verging on judgemental. 

Nour had made her contempt for The Red clear from the first day they had met. War magic was generally treated with disdain by peasants, who knew its price too well. That Nye hadn’t issued the Mistress of the Red a firm refusal had earned her a subtle displeasure from her maid and the small discomforts that could only come from an efficient servant.

Nye had been studying at Domdaniel for six months and had yet to choose a specific discipline. Each of the Masters had courted her like an eager to be wed suitor since her arrival. Only around nine students were enrolled per year and the competition for each was fierce since the amount of resources given to each of the disciplines was decided by student numbers. 

“I suppose I have to go to one of them…” she said with a sigh, wrapping herself more deeply in the large, brocade shawl she had brought from Vanaheim. “Tell the Master of the Black I am happy to join him, and send my regrets to the Mistress of the Red. I’ll see you at our rooms, after I take a bath.”

She tried to not be offended at the smug nod Nour gave as she backed away. It wasn’t as if Nye had any desire to study battle sorcery, she had simply wanted to be politic, as she was not merely a foreigner in the country but to the entire Realm and had no idea how things were handled here.

Loki would know, she thought, turning her back on the ocean and the distant view of the city, going to take tea with the chief of the necromancers.

Nour went back to Madame Nye’s rooms, humming with pleasure to herself. Her charge would make an excellent _ sayidat almawtaa _ , or  _ Maîtresse des morts _ , to be more modern. 

Sniffing, she made a note to tell the maid to use less heavily perfumed soap when she cleaned next.

Laying out an afternoon tea dress, she shivered a bit. Nye had been complaining of cold all winter, sitting close to the brazier in every room and drinking enough mint tea to flood a small town. Nour hadn’t thought the weather especially bad that year, but there was a distinct damp chill to the room. 

Closing the carved wooden window screens and the curtains, as she went to fetch more coals Nour failed to note the bouquet of jasmine that lay on the pillows of Nye’s curtained bed, scenting the air despite each of their petals being so frozen they were like tiny ivory carvings rather than anything that had ever been alive.


	2. Marriage teaches you to live alone. ~ French Proverb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nye attends a lecture, Loki gets comfortable

The mystical school of Domdaniel was for Midgard ancient, at times respected, sporadically honorable, always difficult to enter, more challenging to leave, and had once been located in a series of caves at the bottom of the ocean until a great earthquake that occurred beneath the sea caught its normally safely paranoid masters off-guard. 

Those who had survived - all of the instructors and administrators, and perhaps two sodden handfuls of students and servants - had dragged themselves and the magical paraphernalia they had managed to save to the sandy shores of Tunisia and decided in silence that they would  _ not _ be rebuilding the school in its former location. For despite being naturally gifted and extensively trained in the subjugation of both the Chthonic and celestial chaos that formed the universe, the events of the flood had been so greatly traumatic to all that one of the more stern Mistresses of the Black had taken to fainting at the sight of water being poured from a kettle. 

A tower, it was decided, would be the new home of the school. 

Though a few voices were raised in mild objection - after all, sorcerers living in a tower _ was  _ a perhaps bit on the nose - the great tower was nonetheless built using both magic and the aid of local workers and craftsmen. The Domdanielian’s could have constructed it alone, and had they done so it would have gone faster. Yet it was decided that adding to the local employment and giving the impression of being eccentric scholars rather than ‘evil wizards’ or whatever other slurs those who could not command the dead to rise or forces of nature to do their bidden might come up with, was both safer and more politic.

After all, torch-wielding mobs had been known to get lucky on occasion and after their baptism by saltwater, none of them were interested in a trial by fire as well.

Nye had been relieved it was so. Her information on the school had been old, and whilst she had been able to attend a submarine school, having learned to magically breathe water as a child spontaneously after one of her many brothers almost drowned her while being ‘playful’ in the pond in her Aunt Frigga’s garden, she did not actually care for it. 

Also, her hair looked odd when floating. It was a style that few could carry off.

Loki would probably look majestic.

She forced herself to stop thinking about him and turned her attentions back to the lesson that was being presented by the Master of the Blue on the roof of the tower. Under a silken sunshade, thankfully. Though it was uncommonly cold, the sun was still fiercer than Nye was used to from any of the Realms she had visited. 

Keeping her thoughts on the lesson was difficult for reasons other than Loki (which would irk him, Nye thought, and then again told herself to stop). Other than the cold, and the sun as well. It was that it was…

It was boring. 

The information itself was interesting, on how to use other senses to see, and if the magic-user was adept enough to touch, what the eye was incapable of seeing on a mystical level. The technique had been developed by a blind mage who had found it after creating a technique to manipulate air molecules so that she could use them to ‘see’. Upon realizing that she was in fact seeing far more than was apparent to anyone around her, she took the work farther.

And farther.

And probably, as was one of the hazards of magic use, much too much farther still.

She had eventually quit all magic and took up baking after ‘seeing’ something that caused all of her hair to fall out - all of it,  _ everywhere _ . Never willing to talk about it, she had just left the school with the advice, “South by southwest, never look  _ too  _ far over that way.” 

Even now, centuries later, on the equinoxes Domdaniel received an enormous cake with those words inscribed in red frosting on the top. 

All of that was fascinating. And Nye could hear Loki whispering, “Now, which way is south by southwest?” (STOP! She ordered herself). The Master of the Blue, however, whilst a genius at his craft, taught with a level of tedium and lack of inspiration that made her long for the excitement of sitting in a moderately uncomfortable chair and staring at a blank wall.

Partially it was due to her understanding the concept of how the manipulation worked very quickly. Whilst the other students were dutifully writing notes and nodding, and those who did not read or write well or at all were doing mnemonic rituals so they could retain the lesson, Nye had already mentally skipped ahead several lectures. 

Anyone who spent the great deal of time with or corresponding with Loki that Nye had would have to become deeply aware of all of the permutations of manipulation or expect to endure a lot of grief and pranks for a long time to come.

Hating herself for thinking that thought, for yet  _ again _ thinking of him at all, Nye forced herself to concentrate on the well-meaning, and genuinely interested in his pupils, though still pedagogically inept, Master of the Blue. 

It was those flowers. 

The flowers that meant Loki had found her. Had bothered, despite his words on more than one occasion, to come looking for her. Clearly wanted something from her. A divorce, no doubt, or even an annulment, though why he would bother with such a thing Nye did not know. Unless he planned to return to Jotunheimr - and that idea was laughable - what difference would it make if he were married or not? 

Unless he had found someone else he wanted to marry as well as pr even in place of her. Jotunn royalty could take several spouses, of course, but if he were pretending to not be one of the Jotnar, or had fallen in love with someone, then it might be that he would want to only be wedded to them. 

Whomever they may be.

For a few moments Nye considered the nature of the creature who would have the wiles, wit, and beauty capture Loki’s narcissistic heart.

Then she mentally snorted at the very idea. 

Loki was as likely to be in love as he was to suddenly devote himself to a life aesthetic of self-sacrifice, good works, and dowdy fashion choices, she thought, resolutely turning her attention back to the Master of the Blue, who was now onto something moderately interesting.

His boyish tenor was nearly excited about whatever he was currently discussing.

“...as of course, this particular concept - physically engaging with the concept of time - proved beyond even the gifts of Rebekah the Typhlotic.” With a small, undramatic gesture he produced from thin air a chart made of wood, covered almost entirely with deep, precise carvings of sigils, along with curved lines and arrows that showed directional motions in what was otherwise the chaos of the universe as related to time. “This is all she left of her work on the subject. Though I do know that she uses some of these as shapes for her ginger cookies. Most delicious.”

He gave a small laugh. 

No one joined him, each student for a reason of their own.

The board was a rough, moveable approximation of what would be the instructions to controlling the movement of time, if one could only translate it to another sense….

Though quite beautiful, and a work of obvious brilliance, it would clearly never function as required.

Loki would probably use it as an ink stamp and dye cloth with it to make himself a robe. 

“Frey Bless!” Nye cursed, standing up.

Again, having Loki come to her mind unbidden, unwanted, and unwelcome, Nye stood, gritting her teeth, and offering a terse apology to the instructor and class, edged her way between the other students where they lay about on pillows or low benches, escaping with as much grace as possible. 

Then, as she stepped out from under the shade, the other students and the Master of the Blue gaping at her, Nye gestured distractedly at the chart, “Music.”

“What?” the Master said, despite his shock at someone leaving a class for any reason. 

Nye felt bad. Any of the other Masters would have had words for her, the poor Master of the Blue, being barely above puberty, lacked the emotional strength to know what to say to an adult woman in almost any scenario, let alone one he could not have possibly imagined.

“The sense that should be used for that isn’t touch. It’s hearing. It needs music, is music. A song actually. Someone to sing it and someone to hear it, both mages. Er, bye,” she added the last, producing a parasol from the pocket dimension Loki had created for her to store her things, and scurried to the stairs down into the tower.

Loki was impressed with the security of the tower. It took him nearly a quarter of a Midgardian hour to get past the guardian spirits, pick a number of physical and mystical locks, reason out which of the ninety-nine doorways did not lead to a bottomless pit, a manticore, or a constantly recurring implosion, and figure out which of the ninety- nine floors that the students inhabited was Nye’s, evading observation all the while. 

Though hardly strenuous, he felt he deserved a little rest, since his fugitive spouse was not there and he reasoned it would be pushing his luck to wander around looking for her. 

Taking off his top hat, with a flick of his wrist he sent it across the large, airy room to land on a chair beside an open window, and then slowly removed his gloves to drop on the floor.

On a low, carved wood table beside the door was a small stack of books. Grimoires primarily, with a few other magical text, along with some local history. Loki ran his fingertips over their spines until the touch of one made him tingle. A green leather-bound journal that Nye had used during their time at the Hekhus for recording her progress along with some personal observations. She had, unbeknownst to him, continued the practice from the time they had left there to up to this morning.

The journal itself was a neat bit of spell work, binding hundreds of pages into a cover that would normally hold perhaps an eighth as many. 

Once opened, he realized that the journal far predated their studying witchcraft together, and that Nye had started at the beginning of her personal studies of magic as a young girl. Despite having no interest in the witterings of any child, Loki reasoned it might be worth looking over the earlier entries to see if there were any mention of himself, as they had been betrothed since birth and had been in correspondence for many centuries.

Fortunately for him, no servants were within her rooms when he arrived, so there were no awkward explanations needed as Loki stripped off his Midgardian costume, doing so physically as using non-human magics in the tower might raise some alarm. Discarding his boots as he walked, using the merest brush of seidr to undo the laces so he might step from them whilst reading, he stopped once to eat a confection from an unopened box. Though it smelled lightly of roses it was too sweet. 

Nye’s round, childish handwriting was crude but easy to read.

Taking another, this one yellow, he continued across the room, chewing thoughtfully, shedding more clothing, as he used a pinkie to flip pages, finally stopped next to the bed he pulled his braid over his shoulder to remove the leather thong that held it in place. With a shake, it slithered free, and finally comfortable he slid under the delicate linen and silk blankets of Nye’s curtained bed.

Really, the living conditions of Domdaniel were most tolerable, Loki thought, reclining on his side, head propped on his hand so he might read. Angry - no, rather,  _ irritable _ as he was with Nye, he was not sorry to know she was not suffering too much from the crudity and primitive nature of life amongst the mortals. 

Though it was a bit warm.

Loki looked out of the large, double window beside the bed and frowned. 

A lovely, cold breeze caused the gauzy curtains on the windows and hanging from the bed to dance.

Turning pages, he finally reached the first time they met at their formal affiancing. 

Finally, something fascinating to occupy him as he waited. Stretching he managed to snag the rest of the box of bonbons and pull it over to him and he settled in for a good read when a shriek - landing squarely between the screech of two sharpened blades scraping each other’s length and a sleeping cat being woken by an overly-excited, teething infant chewing on its tail - sounded from the doorway.

“What are you doing!?” Nye stared at him with an insultingly surprised expression of horror.

As if his finding her should prove any manner of challenge to him.

Though her face was flushed she seemed to be shivering a bit. How sad that she should be uncomfortable. Though it was entirely her own doing.

With what he hoped was a patient smile, he closed the book and pushed back a lock of hair that had fallen forward. “Reading. I should think that would be obvious, wife, to a devoted scholar such as yourself.”

“I mean,” she stopped and looked out of the door up and down the hallway before shutting it with a quiet firmness, “what are you doing here,” she gestured to her room, stalking towards him, “in my bed. Naked.”

“Would you prefer I was in here fully dressed and with my shoes on? That seems unsanitary at best. Wife.”

He felt himself growing rather less impatient. 

She went on, “Eating my candy,” with a clumsy jerk she spitefully grabbed them, tossing them out of the open window. 

“Now neither of us can enjoy them. That is rather small of you. Wife.”

Ignoring him, her eyes narrowed, “Reading my journal!” 

“Are you going to throw this out of the window as well? That seems like it would punish no one but yourself. Wife,” he lifted it limply, offering it to her. “And never fear, I had only just reached the interesting portion of your life when you interrupted me. I had barely passed the part where you tried to turn your oldest sister’s pony into a unicorn. That was … an unfortunate result. I hope she eventually forgave you.”

Ripping it from his hands, Nye pressed it to her pretty breasts, which were covered by a rather demure green gown embroidered with golden roses. It was very pretty. And being of the current Midgardian mode for noblewomen from one of the other continents than the one they were on, would be very difficult and time-consuming to remove. 

Which might be rather enjoyable, he reasoned.

Not that he planned on doing such a thing. He was far too angr-  _ irritated _ with Nye to pleasure her, and far too aware that she would happily rip his penis off and flog him to death with it were he to try. 

“What are you doing here?” 

“I came to talk. To finish our last, incomplete conversation.”

“Like this?” Nye waved a hand at him. Her cuff had a pretty bit of a frill on it that Loki found himself wanting to take in his teeth. 

Rather than doing so, knowing it would set the wrong tone, he rolled onto his back, hands laced behind his head so he could study the elaborate patterns on the cloth overhanging the bed.

His phallus, apparently unaware that he was too irritated for lust, was raising the blankets over his loins more than a small amount. “I thought that this being the state in which you left me when we had that last, incomplete chat, returning to it might be appropriate. Of course,” he turned to glare at her, his irritation turning rather hotter, “I was asleep at that time, so not exactly the same state. Is it, wife?”

Nye took a step back.

  
to it might be appropriate. Of course,” he turned to glare at her, his irritation turning rather hotter, “I was asleep at that time, so not exactly the same state. Is it, wife?”

Nye took a step back.


End file.
